


Technology

by NewWonder



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, PWP, hot men having sex, kinda sorta dubcon-ish but not really, some mind games, teh snark abounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Technology is the making, modification, usage, and knowledge of tools, machines, techniques, crafts, systems, methods of organization, in order to solve a problem, improve a preexisting solution to a problem, achieve a goal or perform a specific function."</p><p>In other words: porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technology

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from an Epik High song, _High Technology_ , which I think weirdly fits Silva in his :D-mode. But then again, I associate Shakespeare with Silva in his D'8-mode, so maybe it's just me.  
> A short bit of shameless porn written purely for the sake of porn, which means, this is as porny as it gets. AND also somewhat AU-ish. Read at your own risk. First posted on bondkink on LJ.

Raoul's always horny when he's planning on wreaking some more havoc.

Bond idly wonders if Severine used to suffer like he does now.

He wonders why Silva's keeping him. The man doesn't question him, doesn't torture him; most of the time it seems as if Silva's forgotten about his very existence. But sometimes, it's like this: Bond on a chair, like the first time they met, immobilized not by ropes but by Silva's weight now, Raoul's body flush against Bond's chest, his arse grinding down on Bond's crotch. His bleached hair tickles Bond's neck; his breath is hot on Bond's face. It smells vaguely of coffee and medicine in a not entirely unpleasant way. His lips ghost down Bond's jaw, lush and soft, slightly wet after he's licked them; find their way down Bond's neck. Silva's grabbed a fistful of Bond's hair when he decided some few minutes ago he wanted to fuck, and he's not letting go. It hurts, somewhat, but God knows Bond's used to _that_.

It's hardly the first time he's forced to have sex with a man, too. But Silva's nothing like the men he's known; one of a kind, he is.

Bond isn't hard in his trousers; Silva is, hot and throbbing and leaking already. He kisses his way down Bond's chest--Bond can feel Raoul grinning against his skin--and his hand slides down, dives into James' trousers.

He can feel himself grow hard in Silva's palm. Raoul licks his lips again; brushes his finger against the head. He's brilliant, Bond's learned by now, a brilliant strategist and a brilliant hacker and a brilliant shot; he's also brilliant at making people come apart. His fingers touch in all the right places, and his sadistic grin sends a chill down Bond's spine.

Then Raoul Silva slides down on his knees, deftly unbuttons his trousers and takes him in his mouth.

He sucks just as smoothly as he talks, with skill and relish; he positively savours Bond's cock, hums and moans around it, and licks it thoroughly from root to tip, sucking on his balls and sliding the head in and out of his full lips--and then takes him deep inside his mouth, letting the tip hit the back of his throat, as his blond head starts bobbing up and down between Bond's legs.

Bond clenches his teeth and thinks of M's ugly bulldog figurine. It's a battle, he tells himself, one he's not going to lose again.

He comes undone in eight minutes.

He's on the verge of coming when Raoul suddenly pulls away.

"Oh!" he says, looking for the world as if struck by some great epiphany. "Oh! Sorry honey, got work to do, have fun without me," and promptly dashes off to the table his laptop is sitting on.

Bond watches him, bent over the table, hammering away on the keyboard. Silva's still fully clothed. Bond's pretty sure he's starting to hate him.

He rises from the chair--his cock bobs, dark and flushed and glistening with saliva--approaches Silva from behind. Unzips his trousers, tugs them down. Silva never wears anything underneath; says it ruins the look of fine clothing.

Bond sinks inside, swiftly. Silva's loose; it's been a week since he last had Bond fuck him. Bond doesn't want to know.

His thrusts are hard and rapid; gentle they are not, and there is little care in the way he pushes inside Silva, who never stops typing. Bond recognizes some kind of code, but the symbols on the screen tell him nothing. He memorizes them so he's sure to remember them later, to the experts in Q Division, and fights an urge to sink his teeth into Silva's neck.

Raoul chuckles, deep inside his chest, and his laugh reverberates through Bond's entire body. He's done with the code now, has moved on to an email in Mandarin. Bond comes deep inside him, but it is Raoul who cries out, throwing back his head. There already are bruises on his pelvis from Bond's fingers. He's shaking violently, having gone weak in his knees; he hits "Send".

"You made a typo," Bond says. "In the pre-last line."

"Oooh," Raoul wheezes."That means this time, agent," he reaches back and squeezes Bond's spent, flaccid cock, "this time you did reasonably well."

**Author's Note:**

> And when I mentioned Shakespeare I was talking about "A Hair on the Head of John the Baptist", a song by Saltillo. Check it out if you want, it's amazing (and very Silva methinks).


End file.
